The Original Argonaut
by pensandvinyl
Summary: Porter had magic. This was not a question. It just was. An unmistakable, undeniable fact that no one had noticed but Neal. A sequel to Argo Navis.


The Original Argonaut

Porter had magic.

This was not a question. It just was. An unmistakable, undeniable fact that no one had noticed but Neal. Not Emma. Not Porter. Not anyone. Because how could they? He did not seem to do it consciously, nor was it showy. Not since that moment in the delivery room anyway when a cry and a sudden burst of power had loudly announced Porter's arrival into the world. Something Neal had all but forgotten in that precious moment and _really,_ it could have meant anything. Because maybe that was just a common occurrence among babies born in the Enchanted Forest - of which Porter was half-descended. Neal had no way of knowing for sure having never had a particular interest in the subject of sex and babies as a fourteen year old boy.

But Neal had begun to notice things. Things that he could mostly brush aside, yes, but things just the same. Because Porter rarely got sick and when he did the bug never seemed to last very long. Cuts and bruises - which were far more common now that Port was mobile - healed quickly no matter the size.

There was even the matter of Neal's nightmares.

Neal had assumed, mostly, that they had finally faded. Because he had Emma and Porter and some actual stability and so of course that was enough to drive away his inner demons. But then he had started traipsing back and forth between Florida and New York and suddenly they started up again. Every weekend. Without fail. Until Neal just sorta gave up on the sleeping thing those nights he found himself stuck alone. And he could mostly explain this away. He had gotten used to sleeping with someone at his side and Emma had become an expert comforter and they all just needed time to adjust.

Neal never did.

Still. That didn't mean magic. Emma certainly never noticed anything and she was always the one to pick up on the sniffles and shifts in temperature, trekking Porter to the doctor and then back with a surprising clean bill of health. Bandages were changed and antiseptic applied and then reapplied as recommended, Emma never raising an eyebrow when she realized such diligence wasn't actually necessary. As far as she was concerned Porter was just a healthy, normal little boy. And Neal wanted to believe that too. He _had_. For a while. Until he simply couldn't.

It happened on one of their Saturday trips to Westchester. A routine thing for the three of them as work on the barn steadily moved along. Leo planned to join them a little later, Neal needing the extra hand to plug all the holes and leaks in the roof before the bitter chill of winter officially arrived. In the meantime, however, that left Emma in charge of handing tools up to him and keeping an eye on Porter, and, maybe, sanding out the rough edges of a door.

"But I wanna see the horsies." Porter cried as Emma deposited him in the play pen Neal had built to keep him away from the general hazards of constructions.

"After lunch, I promise."

This wasn't the typical way they did things - Porter always got to see the horses first - but they had a lot to do and little time to do it in and, okay, Emma just absolutely refused to let Neal climb up and down the roof unsupervised.

"Because you're a foolhardy idiot," she would tell him and while he liked to think that he had grown out of the days of his foolish youth, Neal still listened.

(Mostly because he didn't like heights.)

But things were just fine until they weren't. It was a clear, if slightly brisk day and Leo arrived right on time, Emma announcing him (and the accompanying food) with a loud and pointed, "Lunch," to which Neal pocketed his hammer and inched toward the ladder, everything perfect and steady until, "Porter! PORTER!" rang across the yard, frantic and fear-filled and so un-Emma-like that it startled Neal, his foot missing that stupid first rung, causing him to lose his balance and fall to the ground, landing with an ominous crack.

Emma froze, half-panicked because it was all clearly too much at once, and Neal hissed, voice tinged with pain, "Go," taking the non-choice out of her hands.

She ran and Neal made a great effort to sit up so he could follow, ignoring both the red hot flames that seemed to shoot up and down his arm as well as the way the world had started to spin. Leo gave him a hand, helping him to his feet and then catching him when he tried to dart forward and nearly face-planted in their patchy grass full of wood shavings.

"Porter …"

"Barely made it past the fence." Leo wrapped a steadying arm around him, hoisting him up. "Emma's already caught up to him."

And sure enough Porter's petulant cries and Emma's worried scolding reached his ears and while a true catastrophe had been averted ( _If they had lost him …),_ Neal should still do something. Porter was stubborn and Emma got defensive when scared and someone might say something they'd later regret.

"I should -"

"Go to the hospital? Yes, I agree." Neal shook his head because that mostly definitely had not been his intention, but that turned out to be a very bad idea indeed because everything went topsy turvy. "Whoa, now. Hospital. Emma and Porter will catch up."

Neal was too busy trying _not_ to throw up to bother protesting again.

"Concussion," the doctor later told him after an x-ray and pointing Leo to the waiting room (something about family only), "and a broken arm."

They set it and had just about finished getting it all wrapped up when Emma burst into the room, Porter on her hip. Then after taking one look at him, and somewhat surprisingly (until he remembered just _how_ much had happened in the just a few seconds), she burst into tears.

"I'm fine, baby. _Really."_ He smiled reassuringly even though his head was killing him and ran a hand through Porter's hair, "Just worried about this little guy."

Porter squirmed and wriggled, reaching for him in earnest and then whinging unhappily until Emma relented, depositing him on Neal's lap. He wrapped his good arm around him to hold him steady and accepted Emma's rather desperate kiss with a pleased hum, half-ignoring the twinge and annoying itch that began to shoot up his arm.

Until he couldn't.

He pulled back, smile fading into a frown as he blinked at Porter.

"Does it hurt?" Emma tried to loosen Porter's grip as he tugged on the sling, "Port, honey, don't do that."

Porter flailed, his lip wobbling. "Daddy hurt."

"Yes. Daddy _is_ hurt, so don't do that."

Only no, he wasn't. In fact, he could ( _quite literally)_ feel his arm beginning to mend itself as his headache faded, confirming the very thing he had half-suspected for quite sometime.

"Babe?"

He blinked and found Emma staring at him, worried. He grinned cheekily, "I'm fine, baby, no pain at all. Whatever they gave me must have finally kicked in."

Emma's eyes narrowed as she caught the lie before they softened into amused annoyance as she clearly reached the wrong conclusion. "You're such an idiot." She then let out a teary laugh which turned into a sob and ended on a hiccup.

They went home and Emma fussed. She sent him to bed and brought him food and made a show of asking him if he was okay every five minutes and if he needed any of the pain medication that the doctor had subscribed. He really didn't have an excuse _not_ to tell her about his theory at this point (he had the non-broken arm as proof and everything), but she did all of this between worried rants about Porter's behavior and Neal could barely get in a word edgewise.

"- and the thing is, Neal, he didn't understand -"

Neal had made several attempts now to assure Emma that what had happened wasn't her fault. They had Porter safely enclosed in very generously sized (and well-built) playpen and she couldn't have turned her back for more than two minutes. They had just underestimated how resourceful he could be.

(Neal would have suspected magic then too, but Emma had already explained how Porter - either quite cleverly or quite stupidly - used his toys as a step stool of sorts to reach the lock kept purposefully just out of his reach.)

" … He doesn't understand what he did was wrong. He just thought he could find the horses on his own so why would he need to wait for one of us." Emma gave Neal her most serious look. "We have to explain to him about rules, Neal. _This,_ " she gestured wildly, "can't happen again."

They had, of course, told him about not wandering off and the importance of listening and doing as he was told, but there was a certain age where kids started to realize their own will. They just didn't get the whole actions have consequences bit. They would have to emphasize that point. Without terrifying him.

Neal wrapped Emma in the best hug he could offer with only one supposedly good arm and promised, "We will," and then, "it won't."

And really, she was far too distracted making plans and having mock conversations about how and what they would say to Porter (which was far more important anyway) that Neal didn't see _how_ he could have brought it up then.

The whole Porter having magic thing.

Because what would he say.

And, more importantly, what did it mean?

It concerned him. Not because he thought Porter would fall into the trap his father had where he allowed himself to become corrupted by the power, but because of all the potential complications. And there were a lot. Half of those, of course, involved Emma because if he told her about magic then he would have to tell her _why_ he believed in it and that, inevitably, would bring up a whole list of things that he honestly doubted she would ever accept as truth. Not without proof. She just wouldn't. Emma liked logic. Magic and other worlds were anything but logical.

Even Neal was struggling to understand. Because this was supposed to be the Land _Without_ Magic. So how?

And it wasn't like Porter knew what he could do. He still ran to his mother for comfort like any other little boy would after getting hurt. But he was smart (so very smart) and he would, without a doubt, begin to notice eventually. He might even start to do things consciously, testing his own limits. What if he tried to show off for his friends because who wouldn't? Only people tended not to respond well to things they didn't understand. They made fun or ran scared or got a little too curious.

Neal didn't want his son to live that sort of life. One of seclusion and fear, unable to just be himself. No kid deserved that. Ever. It was the worst thing he could think of in a long list of what ifs and worst case scenarios and really, magic was nothing but trouble.

Until it wasn't.

Because it did.

Happen again.

(On a clearly noticeable, undeniable scale.)

Several years later. When Porter went on his very first field trip. Because of course he wandered off despite having clear instructions not to.

The morning started early and unusually, Neal waking up to Emma murmuring soothing sounds. A typical noise heard in their bed, but for once they weren't directed at him. Unfortunately, that meant they were for their son. Who rarely had trouble sleeping. He had struggled those first few nights after they had moved him into his very own room, Porter refusing to sleep because it was new and he was used to having them _right_ there. But he had quickly adjusted and learned to love his room and his big boy bed and they didn't have very many hiccups after that. Well, nothing more than the normal struggles of a stubborn little boy who just didn't want to sleep when he was told.

"What happened?" Neal squinted through the dark, his voice rough with sleep.

Emma shushed him, which must have meant that Porter had finally started to fall back to sleep because the next thing Neal remembered was waking up to their typical alarm - Porter bouncing on the bed, demanding breakfast, his nightmare seemingly forgotten.

"Tell me again," Emma demanded, stern despite the yawn forcing it's way out of her mouth as she pushed Porter's breakfast in front of him.

Porter dug right into his eggs and, with a full mouth, managed a garbled, "Do what Miss Kimberly says."

Emma cut up some banana slices into a bowl of fruit, "And?"

"Don't talk to strangers." His tone was bored, like he had repeated this all a thousand times before.

"Yes," Emma poured some orange juice into the glass, "And?"

"Don't wander off."

These were Porter's rules. Always listen to the adult you're with, don't wander off , and don't talk to strangers. His natural curiosity meant he was more inclined to break one more than the others and Emma stared him down as if to try and determine if Porter really meant to take these rules seriously today. He knew why she was worried. This was the first time that Porter was going anywhere further than school without them, but there would be plenty of volunteer parents and Miss Kimberly was an excellent teacher.

Neal chuckled, ruffling Porter's hair. "It'll be fine, Em."

Porter chimed in excitedly. "Yeah, Mommy."

It should have been anyway, but instead sometime after lunch, after getting a hysterical phone call from Emma, his heart plummeting with dread. Emma very rarely lost her composure to such a degree and that could only mean something had happened to Porter. He rushed out of the office, nearly colliding with a dozen people on the way to his car, but he couldn't figure out _what_ Emma was saying and his attempts to at least pull a location out of Emma were met by deaf ears.

Finally, a slightly accented voice cut through quite clearly, "Northern Westchester Hospital," and there was a twinge of relief at knowing Emma wasn't alone.

"Effie?" Neal's hands shook as he tried to turn the key in the ignition. "What happened?"

"Just get there, John," she stressed, "quickly."

She hung up, leaving Neal with nothing to do but shout her name into the phone and then slam a palm against the steering wheel.

"Shove over."

It was Leo, forcing his way in through the car door.

"I've got to -"

"Yeah," Leo nodded at his hands, "and seeing as you can barely turn that key, I'm kinda doubting your ability to drive. So shove over and I'll get you there."

Neal listened, repeating the location that Effie had given him before he tried Emma's cell again. No one answered.

Leo couldn't drive fast enough.

There was a lot of rushing and frantic questions and frustrated yelling when they arrived because no one could seem to tell them where to go until, finally, Emma's very loud, very frustrated voice reached him and he rushed through a door to find Effie doing her best to get Emma to clearly just calm down as she faced a very grim looking doctor, telling him in no uncertain terms, "I wanna see my son."

"I understand, Miss Swan, but -"

"I'd do what she says." Neal nodded at Effie before he took her place, wrapping an arm around Emma's shoulders, pressing a kiss against her forehead and for one brief moment she just sagged against him, letting all of her fear and hopelessness pass onto him as she breathed a far too shaky, " _Neal,"_ into his shoulder.

The doctor glanced critically at him. "And you are?"

"Porter's father." Really, he was doing a miraculous job of holding it together, refusing to let the doctor's confused look to register (something that happened when father and son didn't share the same last name), instead barreling past the inevitable question with a pointed, "And I would really like to know what happened to my son."

"He fell, Neal." Her voice was still hoarse with emotion, but Emma seemed to take on the same mock strength he had, regaining her composure, her words only shaking slightly as she told him, "He fell and hit his head and now he won't wake up. _He_ keeps saying that he might never wake up. They wanna take him in for surgery, but they won't let me see him."

Neal couldn't think, let alone process what all of it meant, only one ominous word making it's way in and back out. "Surgery?"

That was bad. So very bad. And yet surely that meant it was something fixable.

"Yes. Your son is suffering from something called a Cerebral Hemorrhage. Which is to say that his brain is bleeding. And it is really quite important that we go in and alleviate the swelling as quickly as possible." The doctor sighed, looking almost apologetic, as if the outcome had already been decided, "But there are risks. Severe risks. Especially with a child as young as yours."

So why were they waiting around then? "I don't -"

Emma cut in sharply, "He's saying that Porter might die no matter what we do and if he doesn't, Porter might not be the same when he wakes up."

So they had a choice and it was quite possibly damned if they do and damned if they don't.

How did this happen? How did they get here? Porter fell? But -

"Time really is -"

Neal looked at Emma, ignoring the doctor's attempts to get their attention. "What do you wanna do?"

"I wanna see our son." Her features settled into a grim, determined line as if she wouldn't believe anything anyone said about Porter until she saw it for herself, and then she offered the doctor a nod, "And then you can do whatever you need to do."

It was with great reluctance that the doctor granted their request and Emma and Neal were let into his room with a pointed, "Five minutes," and several words of caution. A strangled croak escaped Neal's throat at the sight of his little boy and he knew, _knew,_ it was his job to find the words that would assure Emma and Porter everything would be fine. But he couldn't. Because he wasn't so sure he believed that. Not this time. Not when his son was lying there, pale and helpless and hooked up to machines.

Neal engulfed the tiny hand that wasn't wrapped in a cast, swallowing it with both of his and Emma, tears silently falling down her face, spoke. And it was odd to think that Emma had words when he didn't, but he was so glad that she did because she said all the things Neal couldn't choke out. But Porter, if he could, needed to hear it. Because she told Porter that they loved him and that they _would_ see him soon and that everything would be just fine. She did this and smoothed out Porter's hair, brushing it out of his eyes. Hair that would surely be shaved off for surgery. And then, before she could even touch her lips to his forehead to kiss him goodbye (or "This is just see you later," as she promised), a startled gasp tore through the room, Porter's eyes blinking open and, voice hoarse as if he had just been sleeping, he asked, "Why are you crying, Mommy?"

"Porter." The sound that escaped Emma's mouth managed to be both a gasp and half-strangled scream before she just laughed through her tears, smoothing out more hair and then everything else as if that would really confirm that Porter was fine and well as Neal just collapsed, head landing in heavy relief on his son's shoulder, "Oh God, Porter."

"You guys are weird." But Porter seemed just as relieved, not once moaning about the extra tight hugs they bestowed upon him between kisses.

But, just like that, everything was fine and Neal couldn't have been more thankful for magic in that moment than he had been for anything in his entire life.

The doctors couldn't understand it, of course. They ran tests, baffled because they could find no sign of the hemorrhage.

"Even his wrist his fine." The doctor compared two x-rays in amazement, "it's like there was nothing ever wrong with him."

The final conclusion was that they must have mixed up Porter's x-rays with someone else's because how else would they explain it.

Emma rolled her eyes, glaring in their wake. "Bunch of incompetent hacks."

For Neal, however, there was no denying what had happened and he had most definitely run out of excuses for not telling Emma. Not when Porter was _that_ powerful. And not after all the worry and the heartache and the fear that Emma had endured in such a brief time.

"What if it wasn't?" They had just settled down into their own bed for the first time since Porter's accident having spent the better part of a week (not) sleeping in their son's room. Just in case. "A mistake, I mean. What if it wasn't?"

"Well, what else would it be?"

Neal gave her his most significant look, hinting at things they had talked about before. Like fate and destiny and karma. Things she had at least come accept that he believed in even if the thought of such powers in the universe caused her nose to scrunch in obvious distaste.

"What?" Emma scoffed, "You think he … Like a miracle."

"He was in a coma, baby." The words were still hard to get out and Emma shifted next to him. "No one could get him to wake up. Which means something must have been wrong with him."

"Maybe." Emma pulled the covers up higher, her expression becoming significantly more guarded, "But that doesn't mean miracle."

No, not exactly. But it was the best place Neal could think to start.

"Our son is _alive,_ Emma."

"I know," her words were loud and sharp and sudden, "I know, Neal, and I'm so very grateful for that, but I also don't like thinking about it because that just means he was almost dead and finding that out, seeing him lying there like -" The words caught in her throat and she took a moment, swallowing thickly, "It was the single, most terrible moment of my life. I can't even think about it because it terrifies me. That something like that could have happened. So I don't care, Neal. If you want to call it a medical mistake or some kind of modern day miracle then do it. Maybe it was. It doesn't matter because Porter is alive and so can we _please_ just stop talking about it."

"Yeah." He agreed reluctantly because what else could he do. Nothing, really, not when he knew exactly how she felt. "Yeah."

And so, perhaps far too easily and most definitely against his better judgment, Neal let it go.

But it was always there. A tickle. That thought in the back of his mind whenever Porter did something odd or so extraordinary that Neal couldn't just look at something like, say, a fight on the playground and simply excuse it as easily as Emma was trying to now.

Not that she let Porter off the hook for punching Sam Delvino in the face. She had been quite stern with him, only eager to find fault with Sam once Porter retreated to his room.

She pinched the bridge of her nose at the sound of the slamming door and then looked at Neal half-accusingly. "Bully?"

This baffled Neal and he gaped a bit before spitting out his response. "Does it matter?"

"Well, it'd explain things wouldn't it? Porter wouldn't just hit someone all willy nilly."

"I know."

And he did, but the action still worried him. Enough that his agreement must not have been nearly as confident as Emma would have liked because she pressed her lips together in a thin line before letting out a heavy, exasperated sigh.

"Well, you'll just have to talk to him," she decided. "Tell him that it doesn't matter how big a jerk this kid -"

" - Who said he's a -"

" - Because violence is not a solution. Ever. He finds us. We handle it."

She nodded definitely and moved into the kitchen, officially signaling the end of the discussion.

It wasn't that Neal disagreed with Emma necessarily. And he certainly didn't think Porter had acted with sinister intentions. But something in that young mind of his justified his son's behavior. Because everyone always had a reason. But reason and justifications did not necessarily equal excuse. This was something Porter needed to learn. Magic or no magic.

(But especially with magic.)

Besides. Neal knew Sam too. Not as well as his son, obviously, but he had become a regular of sorts at _Tallahassee,_ needing a safe place to go to escape his crime-infested neighborhood in the hours after school and before his mother finished work. And Neal knew, unlike Emma's assumptions, that Sam was a good kid. Just like Porter.

He knocked on Porter's door, pushing it open at his garbled, "Come in," observing that he had sprawled himself out on his bed, Superman's wrinkled form visible as Port opted to bury his head beneath pillow and covers.

Neal settled down on the bed, somewhere between Porter and his dresser and ran a shaky hand through his curls. Despite Emma's declaration that he'd be the one to come in here and lay down the rules, Neal had taken some time, trying to figure out exactly what he would say and how. Because if Neal truly wanted Porter to understand he would have to settle for the truth. Well, a somewhat lighter version of it anyway. But still. It was a story Neal had never ever anticipated actually sharing with his kid.

"My old man used to knock people around." His voice only wavered slightly and the pillow shifted, Porter turning, brown eyes meeting his own. They had entered uncharted territory here and Porter's gaze - wide and curious and red-rimmed - reflected all those years he and Emma had spent dodging questions about childhood and noticeably absent grandparents.

"He had his reasons, of course." Neal opened his arms, letting Porter cuddle into his side, both clearly needing the comfort. "Excuses to justify whatever he did. But it didn't really. It just made it so that people feared him. I _got_ scared of him and he became a very hard person to like …"

Porter sniffed. "Do you not like me anymore, Daddy?"

"I will _always_ like you." He kissed his son's forehead, stroking his fingers through his hair. This point was just as important as any other he would try and make during the course of this conversation. Or no, actually. It was the _most_ important. "Just like I'll _always_ love you. But that doesn't mean I'll always agree with what you do. Just like you might not always like some of the things me or Mommy do."

Porter scrunched his nose and seemed to think this over. "You don't like that I hit Sammy."

"I don't," Neal tilted his head, offering a wry smile, "but more importantly, Port, is that I don't think you like it very much either. You know it was wrong. And I'm betting that's why you haven't tried to explain yourself."

Porter let out a frustrated sounding huff, opened his mouth to speak and then seemed to think better of it, ducking his head in obvious shame. Neal had to swallow past the stabbing pang of guilt that came with the knowledge that he had inspired that feeling. But he _knew_ , too, that Porter needed to understand this lesson.

And while Neal hated to put something on someone so young, it _was_ kinda like all those superheroes Port liked to read about. Because with great power comes great responsibility.

(Even if he didn't know he had it.)

"There's always another way, Port." Neal nodded at the overstuffed bookshelf across the room. "All those books you've read? Added to that imagination of yours? I bet you could come up with something. Because while it's okay to get angry it's also important to handle it responsibly. Try talking it out. Or walk away. Cool off. Find an adult. Understand?"

Hair flew wildly, Porter bobbing his head up and down before he stopped, biting his lip nervously. "Do you think I can apologize to Sam?"

Neal's lips crept upward into a proud smile. "I think that would be a very good idea." He mused his son's hair playfully and then climbed to his feet, heading for the door. "I'll give his mom a call and see if we can set something up for tomorrow."

"Daddy?" Neal acknowledged with a hum and Porter sat up a little straighter. "What happened to _your_ dad?"

He probably should have expected this question but it still managed to knock him back a bit and he sputtered, his old flight instinct kicking in as a thousand different explanations danced in his head, none of which seemed fitting or appropriate. Neal didn't like the idea of lying to Porter. But what could he say? Should he say nothing at all? Finally, voice resigned and distant, he went with the truth.

"I lost him."

"He died?"

It'd be so much easier to lie. It might not even be a lie. It'd been so long now. For all Neal knew he could be. Though he really doubted it.

Still, Neal shook his head. "No. Just gone."

Porter contemplated this answer wearing a thoughtful yet somber look well beyond his years before it shifted, turning into something a bit more hopeful. "Maybe you'll find him someday."

Neal smiled tightly. "It's not possible." Porter, inquisitive as he could be, wasn't likely to leave it at that so Neal gave a big smile. "Best get washed up, Buddy, dinner will be ready soon."

He slipped out of the room quickly to avoid any of Porter's potential protests only to nearly collide with Emma as she hovered just outside the door. She thrust a cup of coffee at him, fixing Neal with an intense gaze.

"What's this for then?"

"Nothing." She shrugged and then caught his bemused look as they walked the handful of steps back to the kitchen. "I shouldn't have tried to justify what Porter did."

Neal grinned because of course she had parked herself at the door and listened.

"Yes, you should have." She chewed the pad of her thumb, peering at him with that same strange look full of barely restrained questions before she turned back to a pile of half-chopped vegetables. "What is it you always say? A kid should always have someone on their side." She snorted and he kissed her cheek. "Who better than his mother? It's funny though -"

Emma furrowed her brow. "What?"

"I just always you'd play the bad cop, is all."

Emma chucked a carrot at him and Neal laughed as he dodged it.

And he had thought, maybe (okay, _hoped),_ it would end there. All of it. The mysterious trouble with Porter _and_ the discussion surrounding his past. They at least made it through dinner, Porter thoroughly engaged after Emma made it a point to remind him that his horseback riding lesson had moved from Thursday to Friday. He was disappointed to learn, however, that he hadn't exactly earned his TV privileges back just yet.

"After you apologize," she told him, "then we'll talk."

He reluctantly accepted this and then, picking at his carrots and peas, stared quite intensely at his plate. "What to do you do exactly, Mommy?"

"Eat your vegetables.' Emma offered Porter a curious look. "And what do you mean?"

Porter shoved a ridiculous fork-full of food into his mouth and, in his rush to speak, seemed to barely remember that he needed to swallow too. "At work. What do you do?"

Emma blinked in surprised before adopting a half-pleased look because it wasn't often that Porter took an active interest in what she did. Not when Neal's own job probably seemed so much more accessible to him (with all the cool kid things). "Well, it depends really. On who I'm working with. Mostly though I try to help kids. Give them a voice. Protect them."

Porter straightened. "So you would make sure they wouldn't have to go anywhere they didn't want to?"

Emma exchanged a significant look with Neal before turning quite serious as she set her fork down, giving Porter her full attention.

"Well, that depends. Kids don't like a lot of things and they definitely don't always like what's best for them," Emma nodded pointedly at Porter's plate and he shoveled another forkful of vegetables into his mouth as if he were afraid she would stop talking if he didn't, "But I always do my best to make sure that they're safe and in an environment that's meeting their needs. Sometimes that's with people that will care for them and help them grow. And other times it involves providing them with the tools and skills that will let them do the same for themselves?"

"But what if they're not in a good place."

"Then I keep fighting for them," her eyes darted back in Neal's direction and he offered a slight but encouraging grin, "Until I know they're in the sort of place they need."

Porter seemed to think very carefully about this before nodding, quite firmly, once. "Good."

Emma waited and Neal, too, had expected Porter to finally come clean because obviously this had to be connected to that afternoon, right? But Porter didn't seem interested in explaining himself and so when Emma shot him a questioning look, Neal shrugged and gave a minute shake of the head. They shouldn't press him. Not yet.

"I'll keep a closer eye on him," Neal promised after they had climbed into bed for the night. "I haven't seem him with anyone new though. And it still doesn't really explain the thing with Sam."

"Maybe it _is_ Sam," her eyes lit up with the spark of an idea, "Maybe he's trying to draw attention to the kid."

"Maybe." It was a good idea as any, though it didn't exactly add up with what he knew about Sam himself. "I'll look into it."

"Thank you." A beat passed before Emma spoke again, her voice hesitant. "Neal?"

"Yeah, baby?"

She turned on her side, facing him full on. "What _really_ happened with your father?"

Neal ran a hand roughly over his face and idly played with the idea of suddenly feigning sleep (it _had_ been a long day) before sighing heavily. "You know."

Emma snorted. "I know the difference between reality and the carefully edited kid's special." She ran her fingers lightly across his face, tugging on his chin, drawing him in her direction until he faced her. "We've been together … what? Eight? Nine years now?"

"Em, baby, it has nothing to do with you." Immediately her features hardened, masking a flicker of hurt. "I just … Me not telling you all the scary details? It's not because I don't trust you. You know I do. But I worked so hard to put that part of my life behind me and _he_ taints everything he touches. I don't want him to muddy all the good we've built."

"But the nightmares have stopped, haven't they? You don't wake up in a cold sweat anymore." She nodded opposite them, indicating the window that stretched from floor to the middle of their ceiling, creating a generous skylight. "And you don't stare out at the stars until you can't keep your eyes open anymore."

Neal swallowed thickly, the weight of the reason why getting lodged in his throat. "Yeah, I suppose."

"And that won't be the last time Porter asks questions. Distractions won't work forever."

Neal gave a violent jerk of his head. He knew this. He feared it.

Emma pressed her lips together, brow furrowing in worry. "If Port goes looking on his own will he find anything?"

"No." The word rushed out, almost as if he needed to reassure himself of the answer as much as Emma needed to hear it. "That was the truth. What I told him. Even if I wanted to I can never find him."

"Okay, good," she smiled apologetically as if she shouldn't be quite so happy that their son would never have to meet the monster that had replaced his father. "Then the lines won't blur, Neal. You're worried about tainting what we have, but you can't. We've both got shit and I get it - yours is a different kind of dark. But it's always been there. It's a part of you and telling me isn't going to suddenly send me running in the other direction. Not after all we've been through. The only thing it can do is make us stronger."

Now. It was now. After years of excuses and bad timing, Neal had finally stumbled into exactly the right opportunity. Emma was listening and engaged and he had already shared more today than he ever had to before. He just had to tell his story and, maybe, she wouldn't laugh in his face.

But maybe he should take it slow. Work up to it. That was probably best. Yeah, definitely.

He let out a shaky breath and then started, his voice barely a whisper, "He'd always been overprotective. My dad. I was all he had. And he was a good guy, really, just not very popular with the locals. He'd been in the war but when he found out Ma was pregnant, he worked out a way to get himself sent home."

Emma burrowed into his side and then found a hand, threading their fingers together. "How'd he managed that?"

"Took a mallet to the knee."

"Fuck."

"Yeah," agreed Neal. "He still walked with a limp years later."

She squeezed his hand. "He wanted to be there for you."

"Yeah." Neal smiled tightly. "But self-inflicted injuries aren't exactly considered all that brave and honorable. Everyone just saw a coward. Even Ma until it wore her down. She left when I was five. Ran off with this … _sailor._ Pop told me she died, but the truth came out down the line."

Emma pressed her lips to his bare shoulder before turning, her cheek resting against it, the pressure of it firm and determined and an obvious reminder that she was still right there. Because she understood this. What it felt like to be unwanted by the one person that should want you more than anything.

He returned the gesture with a grateful kiss against her temple. "We made do -"

"Sheep farmers." He could feel her grin as the words skittered, nice and warm, across his skin.

Neal let out a snort. "Yeah. Sheep farmers."

"You know what I've been wondering?" He hummed a curious note. "Did you have the, _uh,_ that thing Little Bo Peep carried around," she made a gesture that he could barely see in the dark. "Y'know, her stick?"

He grinned, amusement allowing tense muscles to slowly relax.

(And Emma, he realized, knew exactly what she was doing.)

"You mean a crook?"

"Sure." Clearly Emma thought this was a ridiculous name to call such a thing. "Well then. Did little Baelfire carry around a crook to herd the sheep with?"

"He did not. But his father did have a cane. And they did have a sheep dog."

Emma hummed, pleased. "And did the sheep dog have a name?"

He grinned sheepishly. "Sheep Dog."

"Huh," Emma feigned disappointment. "Somehow I expected something a bit more creative from the people that came up with _Baelfire."_

"You know we spun wool too."

Emma let out a triumphant sound, as if she had just won the lottery or something, jabbing his side with a teasing poke. "You can make me a sweater."

His grin widened, though his words were dry. "Yeah, I'll get right on that."

"You better." Emma let the moment sit in companionable silence before prompting him once more, "Okay, so … young Baelfire and his father herded sheep and spun wool. What happened next?"

"Life, I suppose," he murmured. "The place we lived … It didn't exactly have the child protections laws like, say, here."

Emma's brow furrowed because there it was. That first step into uncharted water. However, vague and murky it happened to be.

"You're not from here?"

"No." He could practically hear Emma's thoughts race and he gave her a moment to digest this before finally asking, "You alright?"

"Yeah," breathed Emma. "Yeah. It explains a lot actually."

Yeah, it probably would. Emma would often waffle between amusement and utter bafflement when they stumbled upon a piece of supposedly common knowledge that just went right over his head. He had tried, back when he had first arrived in this world that second time, to get the basics. But he couldn't study everything and then there were those things people just _knew._ Because they had grown up with it. A benefit he didn't have.

Anyway. "The fighting got bad enough that the higher ups lowered the recruiting age. Several times and eventually it was my friend, Morraine, getting drafted. It didn't take Da long to figure out that'd it only be a few days before I got called up too." Neal let out a shaky breath. "I was fourteen."

Emma drew a sharp breath inward. "Where was this?"

"Em, baby," he sighed heavily, "you can't do anything about it."

"I could." She wavered, searching for something. _Anything._ "I could find a charity. They have one of those for everything."

Neal snorted. "Not for things that no longer exist. It ended. The war. But back then. _There._ That's just the way things went."

Emma shook her head. "But it shouldn't be. Children shouldn't have to suffer an adult's failures." She shifted, her anger making her restless until he pulled her tighter against his side. "It gets worse than child soldiers doesn't it?"

He acknowledged that fact before scooting down, stopping when they were nose to nose.

"I'm okay," he told her and he meant that. This was easy, really. Telling Emma. She made it easy. "I got out and I'm okay now,"

She brushed her lips against his. "I wouldn't be."

"Yeah, well, Da wasn't either. He tried to find a loophole. The lengths that he went to were obsessive … dangerous. He changed. And that fatherly protectiveness? It turned possessive. What I told Port? About him knocking people around? It started like that, but then," Neal swallowed, squeezing his eyes shut, "people started turning up dead. Really, gruesome, horrible deaths."

He felt Emma shiver and when he opened his eyes, he saw her expression had turned thoughtful and then worried. She traced the lines of the x-shaped scar that marked his heart, voicing the one thing he knew she'd always probably wondered, but couldn't quite bring herself to ask, "Did your father …"

"No," he murmured, "He hurt a lot of people. Too many. But never me. Not physically, anyway." He shook his head. "No, this came after."

She shifted, pressing her lips to his scar, scattering kisses up his chest and neck, finding his own mouth. He could taste her tears and he swallowed against his own lump that had grown in his throat.

"I thought if I could just get him out of there, y'know, it'd get better. He'd change back and we could start over somewhere else. But …"

The word caught in his throat unexpectedly and he squeezed his eyes shut at the sudden assault of images. Things he hadn't thought of in years. Flashes of swirling, green portals and scale-like hands letting go of his. Emma kissed his eyelids and then each of his cheeks and when she reached his mouth once more, it wasn't just the salty tang of her tears that he was tasting.

"I couldn't stay," he finished, "and he wouldn't go."

The last word caught on a sob and just like that the dam he hadn't realized he'd built just collapsed. Emma held him as tight as she could, kissing every bit of him she could reach, and making soothing sounds between fierce whispers of, "I love you," and, "We're home. We're safe," and," I'm not going anywhere," and somehow, because she knew him, "It wasn't your fault."

The words fueled and strengthened him and as the tears slowed he captured her lips with his, rolling on top of her, taking her comfort and letting it morph into need and desperation, stripping off her pajamas as he frantically sought out her warmth.

And after, as he settled against her still heaving breasts, her hands tangling in his hair, he murmured a significant, "Thank you."

"Thank _you,"_ she said with just as much emphasis and he felt a stab of guilt.

Because he had never actually gotten around to saying the one thing he probably needed to. Which was hard to imagine. How could there possibly be anything left to say when he had said so much.

"Emma -"

She let out a content hum.

He knew exactly what he needed to say, but the words still wouldn't come.

Instead, he said, "I love you."

"I love you too." She found his hairline and against his forehead, she asked, "Do you think you'll sleep?"

"You're here." He felt her grin and his eyes drifted closed, "my own personal dreamcatcher."

That wasn't why he wouldn't. Or maybe it was. Either way it didn't matter because she'd be there, armed and ready to pull him back to reality. That's all that mattered.

He couldn't ever lose that.

Every one of those pesky excuses Neal had warned Porter about and there he was, swallowing down words like _magic_ and _Enchanted Forest,_ denying their existence and making excuses because despite what Emma had promised, he knew they _would_ change everything. They had a power that couldn't be denied. He feared him. And as long as magic existed he would always be the coward.

His father's son.

X-x-x-X

Quick note: I intended this to be a part of a larger short story (which I promise is on its way), and there are things here (events and characters like Effie) that will get addressed from different angles and the like, but story wise I realized during edits it mostly stands on its own so here it is.

Also, regarding the magic. I know it may not seem like it, but I do have rules for why and how it's working the way it is.

Thanks for reading!


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